


Tidbit

by grayorca



Category: Castle Rock (TV), KING Stephen - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayorca/pseuds/grayorca
Summary: AU. Because what else is a mouse good for?Tentative hiatus until further notice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **One-Time Disclaimer:** _Castle Rock_ © Hulu. All S.K. elements © Stephen King.
> 
>  **Notes:** In discussion with YearwalktheWorld (writer of _Vessel_ ), this idea cropped up.
> 
> ...Yes, it's really just an excuse to write simple, fluffy, crackish cuteness (something sorely lacking in what Castle Rock fics I've seen), but I'll try to include some kind of suitable plot. As yet, no, there isn't a determined end.
> 
> But the idea of the Kid and a mouse, conspiring to wreak havoc upon Shawshank? How could they not?
> 
> Artistic license will have to account for any inconsistencies we see with regard to the last two episodes of season one yet to air.
> 
> Unbetaed.

_You should still be in the hole._

This became apparent the moment the spring in the trap went off. One glance between the bait and its would-be taker, and that was it. Had the mouse never ventured out of the crack beside the door, drawn by the scent of a mouldering piece of cheese, it wouldn't have exposed itself to his gaze. The rodent wouldn't have fallen victim to its own given need to eat.

But here they were. One neck-breaking _squeak_ later, and it was curtains for the infirmary wing's latest infiltrating pest.

In a way, he supposed it was a good thing. The concept of a baited trap was to capture (kill), after all, to get rid of a given nuisance. He had helped the contraption serve its purpose. Chump change, in the grand scheme of things, but confined as he currently was, it wasn't as though he was in a position to do much else.

In another way, it showed what he had so secretly wished had not come to pass.

For years he had wondered, but never dared ask. The only person available to harbored no interest in humoring him. Instead, he had waited. And the waiting paid off.

He had his answer. The cage was gone, and here he was, out (sort of) and alive (if you could call it that) and (more or less physically) well.

And so was his curse.

(Because what other word was there for it?)

...Well, drat.

\-----

"Well, lookie here. Old thing finally did its job."

Some time later (who knew how much, who much less cared), he watched, still seated in the corner of his room, as the nighttime custodian made their unceremonious entrance. Sweeping the floor, the middle-aged, paunchy man's face lit up with vague curiousity at spotting the deployed mousetrap. He set aside the broom and collected the trap.

He held the dead mouse by its tail, lifting it up to eye level. Weighted by the trap, its limp form swung gently back and forth in his grip, like a grisly pendulum.

The infirmary's only tenant took care to glance away before the janitor noticed him. No, there was nothing to feel about this. The man was just doing his job (he had seen worse; what was the body of a mouse to a retired EMT?), same as the trap did.

"Huh."

But the trap didn't have the means to sneer, to poke fun and gloat.

"Don't suppose you had a comment or two, watchin’ it happen?"

He thought to keep his eyes averted, thought twice of the repercussions of doing so, then reluctantly looked over. He didn't want to believe it was true. All it took was a glance, eye contact and one errant bad thought, and just like that, the recipient was as good as dead.

Nothing to say, indeed. It was better if he didn't.

Regarding him, the janitor scoffed gently. His stubbled, flabby face curved in a halfhearted smirk. "Right. 'Course not." Without as much care, he dropped the trap. It landed with a hollow _clack_ against the concrete, upright, just outside the bars. "Who am I to deprive you of your new pal?" 

_...Pal?_

The janitor didn't speak with real venom. It was just a... benign sort of general hostility, a sarcasm he seemed to harbor for all who he worked with in his god-forsaken facility. He wasn't half as glib to his wife of thirty-plus years. She was the only one for which he turned soft and docile. Her illness had him working long hours, trying to pay the bills.

It wasn't wrong for him to vent a little crankiness, here and now.

And the mouse was a pest he was glad to be rid of.

Experience said the next one would come along as soon as the next trap was set out. Maybe they'd put out poison. Maybe they'd finally get the funds to repair that crack beside the door.

The janitor mused on as much, finished sweeping, and left without a backwards look.

From his corner, the Kid (so known as he was becoming to those of Shawshank State Prison) stared at the ensnared body.

For a few blessed seconds, he could ignore the ever-present fog of sounds all around, and think different, distract himself.

Sure. He was only barely familiar with the idea of a pal (the one guard sort of fit the criteria: all wide-eyed, with the gentle, coaxing voice, whose shirt said _ZALEWSKI_ ). But if the problem in question here were remedied, it would mean no more visitors of the four-legged variety. The infirmary was anything except sanitary, but as a medical wing of the prison, it was intended to remain pristine. Traps alone weren’t enough to deter the presence of rodents.

The squeaks were familiar (sometimes one would find its way to the cage, down in the dark, usually when the warden was away; but the evidence would be there, next the lantern was brought to bear: nibbles at the crusts of the bread, the occasional stain or mouse pellet on the floor), and now, here, above ground where everything was at once so familiar and _not_ , couldn't he have one bit of solace? In something? To know not every last blasted living thing in this town was so damned _because_ of him?

Who knew how long he would be stuck in _this_ given room?

His brow furrowed.

Hadn't he endured enough time, alone, all because one moment of goodness had gone so decidedly wrong?

\-----

Henry Deaver was taking his sweet time connecting the dots.

That was fine. Sooner or later, the day would come in which he did.

Meanwhile... 

\-----

"Hmm. A hundred and four. Bona fide fever. ...Odd, very odd."

The man in the white coat turned away, dutifully scribbling onto his clipboard (because in this day and age, nothing beat the old pencil and paper). Mumbling to himself, he ran through the possible causes, what could be the origin of such symptoms as high temperature, neck stiffness, and a sensitivity to light.

Sitting at the edge of the examination table, the Kid stared at the back of the doctor's head. His pale skin was cool to the touch.

Those symptoms were easy enough to fake.

As was willing the doctor to misread his thermometer.

Meningitis of the bacterial variety, it might not be, but a few more days' observation, just to be safe.

Yes.

Yes, just to be safe.

\-----

No, he wasn't stalling.

But mice didn't befriend easy. In a way, he couldn't have picked a more tricky animal to bait. The odds were slim to none he would be successful in the time he had bought.

In prison, though, one's pickings for company were nothing if not slim. 

\-----

"Care to explain this? ...I mean, if you can?"

Bread was fine. But mice had more evolved tastes, in comparison. Rather than petulantly turn his nose up at the prison's (idea of) meals, as he had begun to a shy day after being let out of the cage, the Kid turned to improvisation.

Dennis Zalewski was the first to notice.

Crouched down before him, balanced on his heels, the young man looked beyond bewildered (then again, he often did in their encounters). The mostly-untouched lunch sat between them. Today the serving consisted of egg salad on rye (blegh), lukewarm peas, and a ration of orange juice.

These things didn't concern Dennis.

No. One compartment on the metal tray was suspiciously empty.

The paper cup of fruit had gone missing.

Staring his interrogator down, the Kid didn't bother to indicate where to. He was left more or less unguarded during mealtimes (such as one could be under lock and key). In that sense, he was free to do as he pleased with the food provided.

He didn't explain, then and there. But had a latently-returning Dennis thought to glance around the room, he would have seen, and the officer would have gotten his answer.

\-----

The next trap laid out by the janitor failed.

Soon enough, another gray-furred house mouse followed its whiskered nose to the infirmary, crawling through the fissure in its crumbling wall. Drawn by the smell, she didn't follow the same trail her predecessor had, to the deathtrap across the hallway.

Canned pineapple, warmed by one's body heat, proved more enticing than stale, dry cheese.

With round ears pricked, she cocked her head, hearing the gentle rustle of clothes nearby, and veered left.

Curiosity didn't always nab cats.

\-----

"Aaand... no fruit for you today. Hm. No... anything, again. Doesn't like rye, or wheat..."

Musing to himself, as the doctor had not that long ago, Dennis collected the still-full tray, sparing its mute, unwilling recipient one last look before turning toward the door. His own words followed him out.

"First the Wonder Bread and now, ah _ha_ \- eureka, pineapples. That makes a whoppin' grand total of two - count 'em, _two_ \- food tidbits y'know he likes, Detective. ...Give it up already, Zal. Let his lawyer do the figurin' if he ever gets here. Doc says the fever's gone, only a matter of time before the private suite shit ends."

His balding, sourfaced coworker, manning the door, frowned (presumably at being kept waiting) and promptly called him out on it.

”Hmph. Can’t end soon enough if this is what he’s driving you to in the meantime. The VIP treatment never lasts long.”

Eyes down, hands in his lap, the Kid paid the older man's complaining little mind. He was worse than the janitor (besides slacking off at every given opportunity, the venting never seemed to end). He was corrupt, ill-intentioned like the rest of them.

Like Dennis wasn't.

But Dennis had a job to do. He couldn't simply hang around as he pleased, much as he (might have) wanted to. Doing so would only cause more trouble for both of them.

Cautiously, measuredly, he laid back of his left hand to the floor, palm up. Slowly, he unfurled his fingers to reveal a tiny piece of strawberry.

Hiding out as she had been beside the table leg, the mouse promptly scurried across the floor at the sight of it. A fast learner, she climbed over his thin wrist. Her tiny feet were almost ticklish to the touch. She started to nibble at the red fruit as he slowly closed his fingers and lifted her up to eye level.

She flinched, but didn't struggle and kept eating as he used the pad of his thumb to stroke the back of her head.

Yes, he should still be in the hole.

But who did it really hurt, having such a pint-sized pal around?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit from Dennis' POV. Because why not? It'd be handy to establish where he is.
> 
> He and the Kid may not be buddy/buddy (yet), but that dynamic can always evolve.
> 
> And yes, Mrs. Emilia Zalewski is effectively an OC. Not because I'm trying to pair anyone or tarnish canon brilliance, but in this AU, a few are necessary to keep things moving.

_Conk out already._

How exhausting was it, mentally willing someone under your watch to get the rest you know they so clearly needed?

"Very," Dennis Zalewski would tell you.

How it was he kept pulling surveillance duty so many nights in a row - that much was no mystery. While it was less physically taxing than working the front desk, or filling in on escorts to and from the county courthouse, or supervising work detail out in the field, staring at a quadrant of television screens was no less vital a task to be done.

And despite the professional impartially expected of him, to pay attention to every monitor in equal measure, Dennis' eye kept wandering back to the one angle, its camera zeroed in on the infirmary and its lone tenant.

Tenant, that is, not patient. Physically, the as-yet-nameless Kid was as on-the-mend as any other person found in his (extremely) unlikely position would be. There was talk around the water cooler, and in places besides. His time in isolation would soon draw to a close.

Good thing or bad thing - Zalewski was still trying to figure this out for himself.

Shawshank herself seemed to concur. Their mysterious guest was about as readable as a fifty-thousand word essay, done in invisible ink. It didn't take a brilliant psychological mind to see there were gears turning behind those haunted/haunting eyes.

Everyone who had had the questionable privilege of beholding him in person had their opinion on who he was, where he came from, why he was there.

All of these questions, the Kid held the answers to.

But as yet he had voiced only two words - _"Henry Deaver"_ \- and somehow he expected this to be all the information required to undo the riddle of his bewildering presence.

Or maybe that was Dennis projecting the feeling that the Kid 'expected' anything to come out of answering Warden Porter's demand in so literal a manner. Thinking of his potentially-career-damning move, going so far as to reach out to the transplanted defense attorney, it still made the young CO's innards twist with unease. Was it really smart to let him in with the likes of drug dealers, rapists, murderers?

He felt more unease at that notion than the Kid himself induced, simply by being a thing of reality.

But that didn't excuse the facts as they were: the Kid wasn't wired right. As yet, he would barely eat, sleep, or speak, to date - almost a week after being discovered. Nevertheless, he did not appear to be outwardly suffering for it. Any normal man would find himself bent over with hunger, beat down by a lack of rest, or eventually driven to share just _what_ had happened to him in the time he had spent confined to the cage.

Ergo, there was something very not normal in how, nodding off before the wall of screens, Dennis could barely keep his head up after an almost fourteen hour shift, and in the three hours he had sat guard, the Kid had not budged from his corner, much less adopted a different, more-comfortable posture to indicate fatigue was setting in.

What was it gonna take?

\-----

_"He probably doesn't want to."_

Dennis closed his eyes, head tilted back against the driver's seat. He had the windows cracked, enjoying what weak breeze blew through the parking lot the following morning. At a little after nine, he had clocked out, preemptively phoning his wife to see to any pending errands between here and home.

Instead, Emilia Zalewski turned the offer on its head.

What did _he_ need?

To talk. With someone who would make a legitimate effort to understand what he was dealing with at work, besides the usual assortment of troubles.

The biggest question of them all being, why wasn't the Kid making any effort to better his condition? The doctors said the strangely-symptom-free fever had abated, and there were rumors of moving him into the general population wing of Shawshank (public knowledge of said incarceration being understandably hush-hush).

So, in the meanwhile, why did he keep starving himself of food and rest?

He wanted to.

Emilia's theory was as simple as it wasn't sound.

He stifled an urge to sigh. "You think it's that simple?"

 _"Well, I haven't_ seen _him, honey, so I can only guess based on what you've told me, and what others have told you. That's like- playing telephone with one or two disconnected numbers you've had to work your way around, maybe a wrong number, and you end up finding a half-baked answer at the end."_

Dennis scratched at his chin. It was a little more coarse than he remembered it being the night before. Doing so, he thought immediately of the frenetic time not long ago, right after the discovery, as he and a select few others saw to the Kid's immediate needs: a bath, a shave, a brush of teeth and hair, a change of clothes, some preliminary treatment for his irritated eyes.

It had taken a little coaxing, to break down the initial nervousness he seemed to regard their compassionate efforts with, but it wasn't as though any of them had to demonstrate _why_ these actions were necessary. Civilized concepts like adopting acceptable hygiene and ensuring one's wellness weren't foreign territory as if their guest were completely ignorant of what it meant to be clean and healthy.

He wasn't grunting or growling like some feral beast. He hadn't stripped off the filthy garments they originally found him in. He wasn't a savage.

And if he let Shawshank see to these needs for him readily enough, why did he not see to his own?

"He doesn't want to..." Dennis trailed off, as though parroting Emilia helped him channel some of her secondhand understanding. "And you think his- want is more powerful than what his body needs, what it's telling him?"

_"If he's determined enough, yes. There are such things as hunger and sleep strikes, y'know."_

"...Then he's gotta be screaming on the inside."

_"Heh. You pull the same kind of gimmick with every double shift you take, Den. Is it that surprising?"_

_Yes, but I can drink coffee, visit the john, or catnap thirty seconds at a time when it gets to be too much. I know my tolerances._

_...Does he?_

_Assuming he was down there almost all of the thirty years block F was closed..._

_With only Lacy to tell him what was what, to bring food and water when_ he _saw fit..._

Now didn't seem like the time to burden Emilia with such in-depth speculation. But it was certainly food for thought.

Slouching in his seat, Dennis straightened up behind the wheel. "No, I suppose not, Em." He turned the key, grateful that the aging engine caught on the second twist. "You sure you don't want anything? ...Or do you wanna psychically consult with the little guy before answering? What does he say it's time for?"

Her light, effervescent laugh was stronger than any cup of fresh-brewed Folgers.

\-----

Posed as though he were some wax statue, seated in the same corner as the night before, the Kid didn't immediately bring the styrofoam cup in for a look. Wordlessly, he froze, and peered up through the tops of his olive-hued eyes. His expression conveyed neither disgust or rejection at the idea of taking coffee after sundown.

But at being offered this in lieu of a "hello", he held out a hand and accepted it, rather than leave his visitor hanging.

And promptly stopped there.

Still standing, Dennis shrugged, lifting his own cup in salute. "You're welcome."

No. Regulations said one shouldn't actively solicit such intimate interactions with inmates. But as yet, there was still no official word that this stranger counted as such. He was printed and booked only as a means of identification, as a futile imitative enforcement of due process.

As that investigation had proved for naught, and the Kid was less than twelve hours away from being thrown into the stir, well... extending him one last luxury before anything happened seemed like the decent thing to do. If no one else was going to do it,

Dennis supposed the duty fell to him.

It wasn't his nature to sweep things under the rug.

"I've got five minutes," Zalewski explained, despite the quiet between them feeling not in any way expectant of an explanation. He stepped back to a healthy distance, standing at ease beside the door.

What were 'regs' really worth when one's place of occupation was a private penitentiary, who essentially made their own rules up as they went?

Five minutes wouldn't impede anybody's day.

Again, without any facial indication of how he received the gesture, the Kid only took a slow glance down at the contents of the styrofoam. He didn't blink, nor wrinkle his nose at the strong, earthy smell, or frown as if the sight were offensive.

Dennis decided to assume that it was. He forced a little laugh. "It's... not as bad as it looks," he went on, because abolishing the silence would take one halting word at a time. "I just thought you... you know, maybe if you had something that wasn't water, or juice... or-or milk..."

_God, I've had easier one-sided conversations with myself._

And experience had taught him the best way to keep (get) one talking was to ask questions.

Perhaps sensing his supervisor's ulterior motive, the Kid glanced up.

Biting his lip, Dennis readied himself with a sip of coffee. He managed not to cough at the overly-intense flavor. "Yeah, this, it- _ahem_ \- it's not great, either. But what did... did Warden Lacy ever..."

He trailed off again, very deliberately, in the hopes it would instill some kind of reaction. A frown, a scoff - something.

Maybe twenty seconds later, he got it.

The Kid merely blinked - a slow, lazy cat's-eye blink - without averting his gaze.

Somehow, despite how low-key it was, it made Dennis feel abruptly embarrassed for daring to bring the former warden up. His shoulders tensed. "Sorry, I know, I... I probably shouldn't ask you about him. He's obviously... well, no, nothing obvious about it."

This trailing-off felt more natural, less forced. The lack of emotion his words were provoking was somehow worse than any angry, bitter retort he might have expected.

Speaking of anger...

"You know he killed himself, right?"

Watch on the infirmary had rotated, in person as well as via camera. Undoubtedly one of the other guards would have brought the matter up to their nameless guest. Or if they didn't, custodians or one of the doctors had to have. But in case they hadn't...

Dennis felt a compulsive need to do so. Maybe it was a subject someone with a meaner disposition might touch on, or maybe it was only for the likes of Henry Deaver to dig into, but regardless...

Wouldn't the Kid like to know?

Watching closely, Dennis saw it - a slight tightening around the eyes, that wasn't quite a squint. Those slow, steady breaths might have hesitated for a beat.

But it was something.

Nervously, almost, Dennis elaborated: "C-Castle Lake. Did a gainer off the bluff, still in his Lincoln... hangman's rope and everything."

_And the head hasn't been recovered-_

_Okay, horror fans, let's leave that part out._

Insulated though they were from the clamor of the overbooked cell blocks beyond, the infirmary never felt more deathly quiet.

Dennis remembered to breathe out. "Nothin'? That doesn't... do anything for you?"

Slowly, the Kid's gaze slid sideways. The minute trace of tension in his face smoothed itself away like ice melting into water. Laconic as he was proving to be, the tics were noticeable once you knew where to look for them.

Unsure of just what ground he was treading, or how thin the ice was really getting, Dennis shrugged again, trying to seem casual (and therefore normal). Curiosity was the sign of a healthy mind, or so one of Emilia's psych books proclaimed. "Sure, I mean, what does it matter, what happened to him? What- whatever he did to you was... it was him, wasn't it? Who locked you up? You didn't- beam down from the stars or anything crazy."

Dark green irises snapped over with a sharp flick.

Dennis might have taken a step in reverse, were the wall not already behind him.

Funny how a movement that tiny seemed to carry an almost-aggressive edge.

He swallowed, trying to quash his rising anxiety, again. He glanced away, fingers mantling restlessly against the styrofoam cup. "I'm asking because... look, I know this whole vow-of-silence tactic is probably for a reason. Whether that reason's good or bad, that's your business, and I get it. I shouldn't pry, especially when it's not my place. But... I guess I'm just- just- "

"Tired."

The Kid spoke so softly, as if to stop his rambling tirade, Dennis almost missed hearing it.

He stopped short, belatedly thinking to ask: "W-what?"

Stilling, the not-prisoner didn't repeat himself, save for a very-slight raising of one eyebrow. The tension was still there, in the eyes themselves, but now it stood for more than one easy to identify reason.

Blinking, bemused, Dennis thought twice of the word their guest had used. The inference in that look was clear enough: _You look tired._

Tired.

Yeah.

Strung out over the baby.

The mounting anticipation.

Prone to rambling.

More so than usual.

Self-consciously, Zalewski rubbed at his still-stubbly cheek. He had managed to cop about three hours sleep, without visiting the bathroom, before the next shift was upon him. The hour-long commute didn't do him any favors, either. "Yeah, well, watching you stay up for hours on end is part of it. However long you were- down there, I'm sure there wasn't much else to _do_ , besides... it must have been a long time, if you don't know what it is to- to eat or sleep, normally."

_But he's gotta be tired, too._

_Tired of being locked up. Undoubtedly._

_Tired of being asked about it. Already._

_Tired of being talked over. Left and right._

_Tired of... a lot._

_Of course it just doesn't show for him like it would on anyone else._

_How could it?_

Shaking his head, Dennis tried to recorrect his straying thoughts. Stupidly, all he could think to do was reiterate: " _Normally_. You know what I'm saying? Like you were... before. Before the- cage."

Oddly enough, this was what drew the most response. The Kid merely glanced away, again. His brow arched downwards in a frown his mouth didn't mirror.

Cage.

To him, it may have been its own kind of curse word.

_...How long ago were you thrown into it?_

Dennis leaned in to ask-

"Zalewski!" A sharp, glass-rattling _bang_ on the opposite side of the door effectively shattered any possibility of getting an answer. So caught up in the moment, Dennis jumped aside like a startled cat, hissing as the still slightly-hot coffee sloshed across his hand, soaking the cuff of his uniform. "There you are. Your mike on the fritz? Boyd's been trying to hail you for ten minutes!"

Pulling a grimace, Dennis flicked his dripping fingers, seeing the drops patter on the floor. Glancing across the room, the Kid was watching him again, through the sides of his eyes, as impassive as before. His own cup, still held poised in his right hand, remained untouched.

_Ten minutes?_

_...That long?_

_Great. His arm must be tired now, too._

Rubbing at his eyes, Dennis bit back a sigh. Belatedly, he thought to answer the portly, scowling guard outside the window-wall. "Y-yeah, sorry, I'll be there in a minute, Johannsen. Jesus, I- lost track of time."

The older man gave an impartial huff. _Get yourself a watch, boy,_ it said.

"Hurry up, then, and I'll pretend you had a good reason. Boyd's another story. Get goin'."

Hastily, Zalewski downed the last of his coffee, without bothering to cover the wince on his face, fumbling for his keys as he turned away.

Solving this mystery would have to wait.

Again.

\-----

The drops of coffee splashed on the floor didn't go to complete waste.

Five minutes after being left to his own, again, the Kid watched as the gray mouse scuttled through the bars. Nose working, she raced over to sniff at the small mess the guard had left behind. After a brief hesitation, she lapped at it, only to toss her head and sit up, spitting and wiping at her mouth with both paws.

Delicately, the Kid set his cup aside, on the ledge beside the window.

Prodding presence aside, it was nice of Zalewski to have offered.

It had taken some time for Lacy to learn when it was better to stop asking questions, too.

If he _really_ meant well, Dennis could be afforded the same grace period, it seemed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who saw this POV coming? ;D
> 
> Also, Animo app users - make sure you look up the Official Castle Rock group. Plenty of places to chat there, trade ideas, post polls, etc. YearwalktheWorld and I can be found there, too!

With the exception of the liquid substance known to Shawshank’s human wards as coffee, each subsequent venture to the glass-walled room had proven more and more rewarding for our peculiar, four-legged protagonist.

Yeah. Did we mention she’ll be getting her share of segments, too?

...And why shouldn’t she? You already know she isn’t your ordinary squeak.

——-

A mouse in the warden’s office.

Perish the thought.

But today, our spy in question had cause to be there. Normally this was a room of no reward, as much as it was of no consequence. The only scraps of food to be found were the occasional banana peel or apple core in the wastebasket. Therefore, there weren’t any traps or poison cubes one had to be wary of. Not like in the commissary or the mealtime areas - those places reeked of danger.

So, you might be wondering, what was our little intrepid explorer up to, taking time out if her busy night to sit and watch from the sidelines?

She was there to do just that: watch.

For her’s weren’t the only set of eyes keen to see the unofficial debriefing of Officer Dennis Zalewski, as being handled by Warden Theresa Porter.

Her friend in the infirmary - he wanted to see, too.

And there were plenty of nooks and crannies to travel by, if one knew the way.

——-

Drawing close, picking her way across a patchwork walkway of cobwebbed studs, splinters, and old, pink insulation, she heard Dennis before she saw him. The wall beside her round ear muddled and turned his words to a drone, but she still recognized the voice as his.

The other, higher voice - she would identify soon enough.

_“...for a reason.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“Granted, it’s a very- minor infraction, and ordinarily it is something that wouldn’t even concern your commanding officer, much less me. But given your particular… and peculiar- interest in this affair, as you’ve clearly demonstrated a few times in the past week, I have to ask.”_

_“...Ask what, Warden Porter?”_

The mouse veered upward, using her tiny claws to follow a seam in the wall, between vertically-slatted boards, reaching her destination at the top in a matter of seconds. With Shawshank being over a century old, there were a multitude of gaps and cracks between junctions to squeeze through, no matter where you found yourself. Following her nose, she went for the first exit she came to.

There were several bookcases in the warden’s office, built into the walls themselves. Most were filled to capacity with thick-spined ledgers, hardcover books, piles of old newspapers, and plastic binders. Some were in desperate need of cleaning out and dusting.

Stringent as Dale Lacy was purported to be, even he sometimes fell short of what it actually meant in keeping a tidy office space.

At the back of one of the cases, was a lateral split in the wall. The mouse paused for one last sniff, then scurried forward, creeping along the upper edge of a binder.

Neither of the office’s two other occupants noticed her. Warden Porter sat behind the desk, finger steepled before her like a disapproving headmaster. Officer Zalewski stood at attention before said desk, hands held behind his back.

The office door was closed. Debriefing in progress.

The mouse’s whiskered nose stilled. She blinked with beady, black eyes, but nevertheless settled on the corner of the binder to watch, and listen. That was easier to do when one wasn’t roving around.

Her friend back in the infirmary would appreciate a steady angle.

There weren’t visible beads of sweat rolling down the back of Dennis’ neck, but by the smell in the air, and his anxious cheek-biting, he hadn’t counted on ending up here in the course of his workday.

Theresa Porter allayed that with a sudden smile, and sat forward in her chair. “Would you like something to drink first, Officer? ...A glass of water, I mean?”

Dennis blinked, clearly taken aback. “Ma’am?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Porter’s tone veered toward a gentle, lecturing drawl. She stood and turned to the water cooler beside the window, plucking a paper cup from the dispenser. “There’s no harm in it. ...And I promise, it’s not a means to collect fingerprints or saliva samples. You’re not under investigation.”

_Not… yet?_

The mouse sniffed again, ears pricking forward.

For his part, Dennis didn’t look entirely convinced at the woman’s sudden geniality. He tended to receive most gestures of generosity with a grain of salt. And it was always a big red flag to be told in advance that your conduct, while not totally professional, wasn’t entirely against the rules in the same breath.

...Wasn’t it?

Still, he accepted the cup of water, unknowingly emulating the same expression his cup of coffee had been received with a few shy hours ago. But he didn’t hesitate to bring it to his mouth and dare ris king a sip.

Perhaps Porter sensed the irony of the gesture, but wordlessly filled another cup for herself, taking her seat.

“Take a chair, Officer. I have a… proposition for you. And, as you’ve probably already guessed, it’s fairly… unorthodox.”

_Add that to the list of words one has already used to label this… not-miscarriage of due process._

The mouse knew not where these words were coming from, much less what they meant, only that the same urge that brought her here now commanded she stay and get a full accounting. This early in the evening, her stomach was rumbling, having fasted all day in her usual diurnal cycle, but filling it would happen soon enough. 

Just as soon as she gleaned all the information she could from this encounter.

What Porter meant by ‘unorthodox’ seemed to indicate the meeting was not at all what Zalewski had anticipated. The words to follow were neither very encouraging or all that disheartening. By the look on his face, yes, the solution was an unordinary one.

But the fact there need be a solution proposed at all seemed to be the most startling factor.

“You’re saying… you want him released?”

“No. Not immediately,” Porter amended. “But… once there’s been time enough for him to… adjust, one has to still look at the long term. We both know, wherever he came from, this environment doesn’t lend itself to- reformation in the positive sense.”

Dennis nodded - a small, timid tip of the head.

“And I don’t mean to say we’ll just be ignoring the facts in favor of doing the right thing. As yet, we have no idea what the right thing may be, for everybody. Being neither here nor there about the… circumstances of his incarceration, our guest doesn’t appear to appreciate the reality of his situation.”

_But he understands. If he didn’t understand at all he’d be blabbering on a mile a minute, trying to make us see, to help him see. We don’t know what his intentions are, any more than he does. Maybe he didn’t expect to be found, alive, but in the event he was, all he had to say when asked “who are you” was- is- Henry Matthew Deaver._

_Because whatever length of time he was down there, if two weeks of the hole is enough to make someone think they’re the Easter Bunny, maybe the same applies here?_

_There was no need for an identity. There was just him and the cage. The cage didn’t care who he was, any more than Lacy-_

“If…” Dennis broke in, without knowing that was what he was doing, as the mouse gave a flinch and reorientated her ears. “If there’s anything to be- I mean, if y-you think it’s in everyone’s best interests- ”

He cut himself off. A bit of the impassive, professional coolness had leeched back into Porter’s expression. She scratched the edge of her thumbnail against the cup in thought.

“I can’t know that it is,” she admitted. “Not for certain. Not without… more information.”

Dennis nodded again, but in the same span of time, a darker shade of uncertainty tempered his affirmative. “So… you’re saying you’d like… an informant.”

_She knows. She knows you called Deaver. The timer’s running. Only a matter of time before he turns up, talking charges and pleas and deals, but what’s that gonna do except muddle the waters? Whose interests, whose needs get the first turn at bat?_

_...Baseball was never my forte._

“You think he’ll- he’ll talk to me?” Dennis blurted out, and at Porter’s raised eyebrow he added: “If he talks to anyone it should be… his lawyer, someone in an official legal capacity, ma’am. On the record. Besides, I don’t know that there’s anything I can find out that a defense attorney can’t.”

“Maybe not,” Porter replied, with a shrewd glint to her eye. Yes, this perhaps fell more in line with matters better discussed with Josh Reeves, her second-in-command. As of that moment, Theresa had her sights set on a less-obvious choice. “But who knows legal counsel is what he even wants? The name he gave could be that of an old friend, a former classmate, perhaps someone who was involved in how he came to be abducted.”

Pondering this, Dennis took another sip. The sweat on his neck no longer shone so obviously above the collar. “You think it _was_ kidnapping, ma’am?”

“Any explanation is better than none, Officer,” Porter sidestepped her answer, setting her mostly-full cup aside. “And as this falls outside the scope of what the system is equipped to address, I needn’t remind you who between us is closer to finding the truth.”

_You were the one to open the bag. Cat’s out. Go round it up._

_Is this her asking for a favor, or a coin flip away from turning into blackmail?_

Dennis swallowed, tugging at his collar. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t… arouse suspicion…”

“Should that happen, it’s for me to worry about, not you.” Another half-smile curbed her prim tone of voice. She steepled her fingers again. “Whatever you manage to find out, we would be most… appreciative.”

_...Appreciative._

The word appeared to hang there, in the air between them, before Dennis blinked out of a trance and tipped back the last of his water.

“If that’ll be all, ma’am…”

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.

Porter nodded nevertheless. 

“Yes, of course. Keep up the good work.”

For as short-lived as the meeting proved to be, quite a lot had been said in very few words.

The mouse scurried across the tops of the book corners, unseen as Warden Porter walked Officer Zalewski to the door. The old, leathery covers offered plenty of footholds. Hooking her front paws in, the mouse felt blindly with her hind feet. Once they found purchase, she flexed, pivoting over herself to begin the arduous climb down the case.

Sending Zalewski back to his rounds, Porter failed to notice the little gray-colored form race out the door after him.

——-

“Way to not draw attention to yourself, dingus. If she doesn’t know, she’s damn close to figuring out it was me…”

Some people, one could tell at a glance how hostile they were or weren’t. Something in their posture, how they spoke to others, and each one’s individual scent made them easy to categorize between harmless, indifferent, or flatout dangerous.

Following the jingle of keys, and her own nose, the mouse followed at Dennis’ heels, unseen. Where he was headed from here wasn’t so much her concern as memorizing his scent was.

As he turned a corner and went left, down a winding flight of stairs, she went right.

The lockers facing the communal showers, so distinct with their damp, scummy smell - there was another place our mouse would never ordinarily go. Squeezing herself through a crevice three doors down from said room, she followed her nose.

Like the bookcase in the office, not all of the lockers were airtight.

——-

Two hours later, Dennis Zalewski’s shift ended. He forewent showering in the interests of getting home fast - the start of another shift loomed a shy six hours away. Per regs he changed out of his uniform and into his street clothes.

Pulling on his brown leather jacket, he happened to glance sideways, at the inner side of his locker door. Doing so had become a matter of habit, these past few months, as another sort of deadline loomed ever closer. The chief difference between them was this one he was actually looking forward to. 

So, naturally, he balked at seeing empty space where it had once been taped.

The printout from Emilia’s sonogram was missing.


End file.
